


paper rings

by loverloser



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Bad Flirting, Getting Together, M/M, everyone is happy and alive!, pitiful self indulgence, richie and eddie both date stan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-22 13:01:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22783324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loverloser/pseuds/loverloser
Summary: Eddie Kaspbrak, a librarian at the Los Angeles public library, listens to Richie Tozier's comedy podcast every day. He's not funny, but he listens anyway."Hi… This is Edward calling from the Los Angeles public library as a reminder that you have three books that you checked out on the third of February, and the date today is the twenty-first of February. To avoid any more possible fines, we'd appreciate a call for an extension or for you to drop them back off at your earliest convenience. Uh, thanks, and enjoy your Monday."
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Stanley Uris, Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris
Comments: 8
Kudos: 28





	paper rings

**ONE.** "Hi… This is Edward calling from the Los Angeles public library as a reminder that you have…"

Eddie Kaspbrak took a pause to look at the sticky note that sat on the thick, black frame of his computer monitor.

_'TOZIER, R  
PROFITABLE PODCASTING WOESSNER, STEPHEN C/O FEB 3  
RADIO SECRETS LLOYD, DAVID C/O FEB 3  
THE GEORGE CARLIN LETTERS WADE, SALLY C/O FEB 3'_

"Uh," he cleared his throat and looked back at his computer screen. "Three books that you checked out on the third of February, and the date today is the…" he glanced at the date on his calendar. "The twenty-first of February. To avoid any more possible fines, we'd appreciate a call for an extension or for you to drop them back off at your earliest convenience. Uh, thanks, and enjoy your Monday."

Click.

Eddie's voice dripped with honey, oozed with sweetness, but as soon as the phone hit the receiver, he sighed and ducked back behind his screen. This was not the first call he had made that day, and it was far from the last, but maybe he could breathe first. Maybe if he paced himself, he could get through the long list of people he had been tasked with contacting. Every time the line buzzed in his ear, he hoped to _god_ that they would send him to voicemail. But realistically, only about 67% of people he called over the week ignored him, so that left a tiny, but daunting 33% of people who would pick up and offer a menacing _hello?_ While Eddie tried to gather his thoughts because he was _not_ expecting them to pick up and _oh, hello, you have 2 overdue items--_

The phone rang as soon as he had even the slightest pause in his thoughts, but luckily, it was picked up by someone else. The someone sitting to his left, Maggie, spoke jovially and jotted down every last detail the lucky person on the other side of her conversation had to say. She was alright, Eddie figured if you were into undying optimism. She was blonde and had an aura of kindness that surrounded her, if Eddie believed in those things, but she was the only person that could pull him out of the hole he constantly dug himself into. The hole, of course, was not full of dirt, but of cynicism. If he wasn't careful enough, Eddie might catch himself getting short with someone, or deciding to see the glass as half empty. But on days when they sat hardly a shoulders width away from each in the middle of a desk that _kind of_ looked like a donut smack dab in the front of the Los Angeles public library, she would reach over and poke him in the shoulder if she caught on. Which, Eddie realized quickly, she caught on very easily. But he didn't think he liked that.

Unlike Maggie, his every day activities consisted of being consistent.

Every morning, he woke up in the top floor apartment that, on a good day, wasn’t enveloped in smog. And every morning, he’d lace up his tennis shoes and clip the leash to the collar of his dog, a seven year old rescue Chihuahua he’d lovingly named Antoni, a dog who was his perfect match. If he looked hard enough, he could see the mountains, but in Los Angeles, that didn’t seem to be the optimal view. The walls that held a roof above his head were an ugly exposed brick with pieces that chipped, the same ones he pretended not to notice. A simple one bedroom has always served him well, and this one was no different. His kitchen was small, but he was quick to order in, anyway. The tiles shone under the light, something he chose as his claim to fame, but he’d rather vomit than tell _anyone_ the floor was so clean they could eat off it. The bathroom, however, was the room he seemed to be most proud of.

The floors were white linoleum that shone while an old clawfoot tub sat atop it in the corner, only a thin beam of the sun being let in through the blinds of the small window that he kept locked. You could never be too careful.

His medicine cabinet hung pathetically above his run-of-the-mill "Porcelain" sink, but when he opened it, he could hear the choir of god singing. On the first shelf, he had the basics -- Tylenol, ibuprofen, Midol, Advil, Aleve. Painkillers for the day to day things. If he didn't leave the house with ibuprofen, Eddie would throw his hands up and groan, cursing himself for being so forgetful. Typically, he started the day with a headache and ended it with a migraine. His eyes were sensitive to bright lights, his nose sensitive to fragrance, and he spent most of his time emotionally tightly wound. He was constantly taking trips to the grocery store on his way home to pick up a bottle of aspirin; that is, until heard the nosey pharmacist mutter that aspirin can cause internal bleeding.

_'Internal bleeding?' Eddie had asked him, blinking his eyes in fear._

_'Ibuprofen, aspirin, ketoprofen…' Before he could finish his sentence, Eddie gasped low in his throat and quickly set down the bottle of aspirin he had been inspecting and turned on his heel to leave._

So no more aspirin.

The second shelf was chock-full of vitamins: vitamin b-12 for his hair and nail growth, vitamin c for his deficiency, vitamin d for his other deficiency, and gummies. The kind of gummies you would find on a child's sink to ward off basic health scares and to promote a healthy life are the same kind of gummies one would find in Edward Kaspbrak's medicine cabinet. And yes, he _is_ 38.

On the third shelf rested the best of the best. The things on that shelf could send you flying high if you were so inclined. Percocet, Vicodin, valium, and an empty bottle of quaaludes that lasted him six months. Those were the ones he left alone most often. If he took them too often, he would forget where he was and swear up and down that he wouldn’t do it again, until the following Saturday came along. In his complete honesty, he could hardly remember why he was prescribed the stuff in the first place. First, he went to the doctor and complained of horrible, aching pain. Then, he went back and said he was suffering from chronic headaches and couldn't sleep. After that, he told them he was seeing spots and was only sleeping one hour a night. It worked every time.

His routine worked well for him. It served him properly, and he was happy.

* * *

On the other side of the city, Richie Tozier sat in an oversized recliner with a fat cigar sitting comically between his lips, friends on either side of him, in front of him, behind him - he was throwing a party.

The music was unintelligible and dissonant, with no real beat at all, and yet he sat nodding his head along, blowing smoke rings into the air above him. If he didn't show off, there was no point. These nights were reserved for when he wanted to be surrounded by people who pretended to care about him, people that used him, people that were _no good_ for him. These people were called movie stars. Upstairs, people were screwing with his computer, and he knew it. Someone was getting fucked on his bed, and he _just_ got new sheets – but good for them. There had to be someone throwing up in his bathroom. And instead of caring, he let a girl hang across his lap and take the cigar from his mouth, putting it to her lips. He wasn't interested.

With a four-star podcast on the iPhone app, a Netflix special that would be airing later that week, and a guest spot on Kimmel, Richie didn't have time to answer a phone call from a _librarian_ ; how could he answer the phone when a mirror with a thin line of something that looked a lot like cocaine was being passed around his living room? He’d be lying if he said this wasn’t his scene, but the people definitely weren’t his friends. By the time he looked up at everybody else with a loud _sniff_ , he was only faced with the people he’d shaken hands with on red carpets, but no one that would carry him upstairs and tuck him in like the way he’d begged his best friend to. The people he let into his home, the ones who couldn't even land a Snickers commercial audition all the way to the Saturday Night Live alumni, had come and gone through the front door of his home that sat comfortably in the heart of Los Angeles. The same friends who had called him to congratulate him, and the same ones who called him a fucking sellout. He did everything but get on his knees and suck dick for the success he'd found, but fuck, he had bruises on his knees, anyway.

Beverly Marsh was the first person to show up, and the last person to leave. Richie’s dream woman by far, she was the one who he called at three in the morning after crying in the back of an Uber – _that_ was a true friend. The music seemed to keep in tune with her heartbeat when she had put her hand out for Richie to take in the middle of his living room, pulling him in close and moving in rhythm against him until they lost their breath and laughed in each other's faces. But they were happy; that's what friends were for. Luckily for the two of them, Bev had been polite enough to bring a bottle of brown liquor that, by the end of the night, they had finished alone.

Everyone who mattered had left, and the ones who didn't… also left. When the clock struck 2 am, the two of them sat opposite each other in Richie's living room, both of them comfortable in their own domain of casual furniture. The room was littered with solo cups and a bong or two, and for a second, the two of them forgot how old they were. This felt like a party he would throw in high school, if he actually had the friends to do it. Richie, who had been holding the glass bottle the entire time, looked up once the last person out the door had closed it behind them.

"Thank fucking god they're gone. I thought I was going to have to pretend to like these comedy club losers for the rest of my life."

"Come on, Richie…" Bev started, scooping up a handful of beer bottles that were strewn across the wooden coffee table, leaving wet rings across the surface. The jacket she wore over her white shirt was loose. "Those comedy club losers helped you make one hell of a mess."

Richie shook his head and he smiled, but he wouldn't let her see. That comedy club crew was a small group of budding comedians that he had met a few years into his career, people whose names would probably never see the light of day - so when Richie landed his first Netflix special, he was surprised they stuck around. The day he shook hands with an exec whose name he immediately forgot was the day he figured his friends would _skedaddle._ The comedy scene of Los Angeles was one that was practically left unrivaled, only sitting second below Chicago, so when he ditched the stage after his face began popping up on billboards in LA, no one could really say they were surprised that he moved to a new medium.

Richie’s podcast wasn’t even his favorite part of his own career – in fact, it may have even been the most time consuming. His IMDB credits had stacked up after the years, with different voice acting jobs here and there (he hated Disney but loved Pixar), cameos that he would never get recognized from (watch the theaters for David Fincher’s new flick!), and even a few behind the camera jobs from after he’d finished college… but a podcast seemed like a little too much work. It wasn’t much of anything, if he were being honest with himself, and wasn’t worth the time. Typically, an episode was about an hour long, and all he did was shoot the shit with other celebrities and ask questions he’d gotten on Twitter or focused on the political climate. His agent, Steve, had told him it was a great career move, but Richie wasn’t sure how the fuck he’d gotten that idea.

A Richie Tozier party typically went a little like this:

Someone would show up early, and he’d have to pretend to entertain them until everyone else showed. This person got the ball rolling though, and that was the exact thing he needed. If his hosting muscle wasn’t flexed completely by the time other people knocked on their door, he’d be in a weird mood all night. TOZIER TIP #37: _Don’t be a fuckin’ weirdo_.

By 9pm, his driveway was full of cars and someone had finally put on a playlist – his friends seemed to be into drinking in silence a little too much. They sipped until someone turned up the music, and once that was done with, they were _slamming_. Richie’s house was packed by 9:30 and the alcohol bottles wouldn’t be found until they had all left, leaving the empty bottles on every table they could reach.

Midnight was when his friends had left, but the ones who were there for the drugs had stayed. They never even said _thanks for the blow_! on their ways out, and Richie always noticed that. _Fuckin’ ungrateful morons._

2am was a typical closing time for him, and Bev was often found with him, as she was that night. They cleaned up together and more often than not, she’d find herself on the other side of his bed the next morning. As much as he hated LA, he could get used to this lifestyle _quick_.

* * *

At 9:30 pm on that same Saturday, Eddie realized he had been up for a half hour past the time he normally went to bed, instead choosing to put away the mountain of dishes that sat in his sink. His routine was simple enough: door locked (in case of a surprise attack burglary), headphones in, mind wandering. For the past week, he had found himself coming back to a podcast hosted by some shitty comedian. _Trash the Trashmouth_ was simple enough; it was talking without talking, a podcast about current events, interviews, reviews, whatever this dude wanted to talk about - it was funded. From the time he woke up until the time he went to bed, Eddie was almost desperate for another person’s voice in his home, in his car, in his ear, and this seemed to be an easy fix. In the car, he’d caught himself contributing to the conversation more times than he’d like to admit. Pathetic, sure, but he had seen this guy's stand-up on Netflix. And it fucking sucked.

Edward kaspbrak **@ekaspbrak1**

Richie tozier, if you're reading this, retire

Edward kaspbrak **@ekaspbrak1**

Imagine thinking richie tozier is 🤢🤢🤢is🤢🤢🤢 funn 🤢🤢I can't even say it 🤢🤢

Edward kaspbrak **@ekaspbrak1**

My grandma is funnier than richie tozier, and she died 15 years ago

Edward kaspbrak **@ekaspbrak1**

 **@richietozier** No one cares about your dick, Dick Tozier

Richie Tozier **@richietozier**

 **@ekaspbrak1** oh hey that's pretty good fuckface, did your 9 followers help you draft that one??

This guy had a million followers, and he replied to one tweet from an account that had an egg for an icon. Fuck.

Enter: the only thing he thought about for the rest of the weekend. While he did his laundry, while he did the dishes, while he took his dog walking down the streets of Los Angeles. Every time, listening to that stupid podcast. It was a simple concept - Richie talked about how much he hated LA and how much he loved juice bars. He swore like a sailor and made jokes that could grate his ears, but it was an acquired comfort, like someone else was in the room. And when you spent your nights in a one bedroom apartment filled to the brim with quaaludes, you needed someone else in the room.

The next morning, after Eddie had cleaned his apartment to the bare bones of the building and done his dailies the night before (checked the mail, listened to Richie Tozier's podcast, made his bed, listened to Richie Tozier's podcast, had a glass of wine, listened to Richie Tozier's podcast), he laid in bed until he had to get out. 7:15, 7:30, 7:44… and then his alarm went off again. The morning crawled along until he got into the car that his coworkers called _“comically large”_ and plugged his phone in - by now, listening to that podcast was auto-pilot for him.

The library was silent until Eddie popped in one earbud while hiding behind his computer. The newest episode of _Trashmouth_ was an interview with George Takei, and Eddie loved Star Trek, so naturally, he listened to it three times. If he needed an excuse, he could blame it on the comfort of hearing another person's voice, but at the risk of only sounding a little bit… _sad_. He had just passed the 25 minute mark when he felt his earbud being ripped from his ear. Quickly, he swiveled in his chair until he met eyes with Maggie, who, as always, sat next to him.

"Why did you do that?!" he whisper-shouted, grabbing the wire and pressing pause on his phone. His ears burned red with some strange mix of embarrassment and anger.

"Eddie, that's Richie Tozier over there."

That same color drained from Eddie's red cheeks and he could practically feel his soul leave his body.

_Keep calm. Keep calm. Fucking keep calm._

"The comedian, Richie Tozier? What's that guy doing here? Shouldn't he be… begging people to buy tickets to his shows?" His voice was saturated and disguised in disdain as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. It was true, she was right. Looking over Maggie’s shoulder, he could very clearly see the one and only Richie Tozier standing by the library entrance, screwing with an automatic hand sanitizer machine. "I guess he's easily amused."

"Shut up, Eddie, you know I have a thing for 40-year-old comedians who act like goblins."

Eddie rolled his eyes and was ready to push back a little, until he turned his chair forward and looked up at none other than Richie Tozier himself. The internet was right - he really was taller in person.

"Uh, hey -" Richie started out, before lowering his voice. He was in a library, not a rowdy bar. "I'm, uh, paying my fines. Guess they're long overdue."

Eddie blinked.

"Get it? Cuz we're in a library."

Richie stood tall in high tops that were on the verge of coming undone at any ill-timed step, matched with black jeans and a light-wash denim jacket on top of some shitty ironic t-shirt. _Eat, sleep… Mine?_ Nothing matched, and he noted that immediately. Eddie, on the other hand, was clad in khaki pants and a navy sweater, tied together with work appropriate brown boat shoes, and noted that, too. He dressed better than Richie Tozier, the A-list comedian.

"What's your name?" Eddie finally looked away from him and to his computer, already typing in _Richie Tozier._

“Uh, depends on who’s asking. You’re not a bill collector, are you?” An awkward silence. “Richard Tozier.”

Oh, yeah. This was exactly the same voice that Eddie had been falling asleep to for the past month and a half. But he was a fucking idiot.

"You don't just… have the books?" Eddie looked up from his computer and up at Richie again, raising an eyebrow. He wasn't afraid of guilt-tripping a celebrity, especially not a celebrity he felt like he already knew, but maybe getting too comfortable too fast was mistake number one.

"I think I… lost them. It got crazy there for a while.”

"Huh," Eddie paused. "$12."

Richie reached into his back pocket and let out a sigh of relief. "Seriously? I thought you were gonna, like, make me take out a second mortgage on my house, dude."

"Libraries don't work like that." Resisting the urge to pick a fight, Eddie cleared his throat as Richie slid a ten dollar bill and a few quarters across the counter, which he accepted.

"Man, I should return my books late, like, all the time." _A leap of faith, maybe?_ The tips of Richie's ears turned red as soon as Eddie's stomach turned over. They continued on in silence, the only sound in the library shuffling feet, keyboards clicking, and finally, the sound of a receipt printing.

"Why would you do that? You would have to carry $12 around with you everywhere you go."

"I don’t know, dude, maybe I just like the library."

"If you really liked the library, you would return your books on time."

Richie's attempt at flirting had tanked, and tanked pretty hard. But instead of embarrassing himself any further, he took the short receipt and shoved it into his pocket. "Hey, thanks."

"... Just so you know, we have a section on electronic media and recording. In case you're interested… in… that kind of thing,” In Eddie's attempt to catch up with the rhythm, he had dug himself a hole. _Everybody fucking knows the first fucking rule of meeting a famous person is to not tell them you know who they are, fuckut._ “In case you're… a podcaster, or like podcasts, or… know anyone who makes podcasts."

Richie paused. He knew what was going on. "If I ever want to start a podcast about losing library books, I know where to go."

Eddie's heart thumped in his chest, but he put on a brave face. He couldn't be less subtle, but in his defense, he was never meant to be. Everything about Eddie screamed _"Notice me! Humor me!",_ but more often than not, he never got a second glance. After another thirty seconds of awkward mumbling, Richie rubbed the back of his neck and thanked Eddie again. Eddie didn't say anything about the fact that Richie had thanked him three times by now.

When Eddie unlocked the front door of his apartment that night, let himself in, and locked the deadbolt, top lock, and set the chain, he finally allowed himself to deflate into his couch. Antoni had jumped up into his lap as soon as he’d taken a seat, as if he knew that today was fucking _rough,_ and Eddie figured that’s what dogs were for _._ Interestingly enough, instead of turning on the tv, he took his phone from his front pocket and typed two words into his search bar -- _Richie Tozier._

Eddie wasn’t sure what he was going to find, and kept his expectations low. In turn, he’d watched YouTube videos from 2009 - Richie Tozier’s standup, Richie Tozier interviews – browsed Richie Tozier fan accounts on Twitter and thought _maybe_ they had something in common, and had gone down a rabbit hole on the Richie Tozier Wikipedia. For the rest of the night, he wasn’t sure if _Richie Tozier_ were even real words anymore, and the reality of it was that when he checked the time before he fell asleep, it was already 2:30 in the morning. 

Somewhere on the other side of the city, Richie wondered if he believed in love at first sight.

**Steve (MANAGER ALWAYS ANSWER)**

hey

Hi, Rich.

are you busy

It’s late, but no. What do you need?

my house is getting fumigated  
i can’t record tomorrow

Are you serious?  
You’re supposed to do the episode about the  
impeachment this week.

donald trump suck my dick  
there’s my official statement  
i can’t record man there’s fuckin bugs and  
shit everywhere

Richie… I am going to kill you. We can’t get  
into the studio until Friday.

that’s fine dude don’t worry about it

Move your gear and record in my office.

you know those rooms at the  
library are silent right  
and free?

You’re not going to record your podcast  
at the library.

why not dude

I’m going to call Patrick and see what  
we can do.

you know i love you  
and would die for you  
my husband in another life  
my everything

Just sign my paycheck and don’t pull  
another fast one on me.

* * *

Love at first sight didn’t sound too bad.


End file.
